


Last Call

by theskywasblue



Series: Summer of Love 2020 [2]
Category: Lost Souls - Poppy Z. Brite
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:36:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25141003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: He wants so much; Ghost can feel it coming off him the way heat rises from the asphalt in August.
Relationships: Steve Finn/Ghost
Series: Summer of Love 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1816525
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	Last Call

**Author's Note:**

> Summer of Love fic #2! 
> 
> I know I literally just wrote these two, but oh well. I do what I want.

They stagger into the motel room, and the night pours in with them - cold with the last edge of winter, sweet with the first tendrils of spring. Their gear, their coats and shoes, scatter everywhere. Steve trips, tumbles onto one of the queen beds, nearly rolls right off again and roars with laughter. Ghost is still humming the last song from their set, and it feels like there are live crickets singing underneath his skin.

He heads straight for the bathroom, to splash some water on his face, to stick his head under a cold faucet - something to dampen the wildfire of a residual high that he always gets from being on stage, so maybe he can get some sleep later - but Steve catches him by the belt loops and wrestles him to a stop.

“Hey - don’t go yet,” he says, still half-laughing at himself as he pushes his hands up under Ghost’s ragged tee, skin against skin, and Ghost swears that he can feel his whole body expand to make room for the swell of desire that he feels; the burning need to touch and be touched. Ghost buries both his hands in Steve’s flyaway hair and Steve grins up at him, face cast in wild colours from the neon light of the motel sign outside, hammering against the curtains.

“I’m not going,” Ghost promises.

“Good - I wanna touch you, Ghost. Fuck, I wanna touch you all over.”

He always sounds like he can’t quite believe himself, or maybe like he doesn’t trust himself; like Ghost’s body is a holy relic he might defile with unclean hands. But Ghost loves Steve’s hands: the way the callouses drag over his skin, the little smudges of dirt or motor oil they sometimes leave behind.

Steve pushes Ghost’s shirt up, rubs his face across the skin it reveals, leaving wet streaks with his mouth. Ghost pulls the shirt all the way off and lets it fall to the floor, reaches down behind Steve’s back to get his shirt off too. Steve’s arms wrap around him, pull him in tight as Steve sucks on deep, messy mouthfuls of Ghost’s skin, leaving slippery red patches behind.

“You taste good,” he murmurs; though what Ghost must actually taste like is sweat and smoke, the days they’ve spent on the road, and the T-bird’s backseat, where they did this the last time.

Ghost gets his hands between them, pops the button on his jeans and starts pushing them down, toes off his socks. Steve gets with the program quickly enough and gets his own pants down past his knees; but when Ghost kneels to help pull them the rest of the way, Steve goes still; frozen, except for where his fingers curl and uncurl against the edge of the mattress.

His left sock has a hole in the heel, his right has a hole in the toe. Ghost drags his palms up the length of Steve’s legs, shivering at the feel of coarse hair against his hands, kisses the scar on Steve’s knee from an old bike crash. Steve pushes Ghost’s hair back from his face, holds his hand at the base of Ghost’s skull, and says nothing. 

“Lie down,” Ghost tells him, as gently as he can. There’s always a moment - sometimes as long as a few heartbeats - when he thinks it might all be too much, that Steve might spook; but Steve never does. He goes easy, drags himself across the mattress with his elbows, feet skidding on the cheap cotton sheets, without ever taking his eyes off Ghost; only grunts in surprise when his back hits the pillows at the top of the bed, like he forgot they were there. When Ghost follows, Steve’s legs fall open around him without hesitation, even as Steve presses both hands over his eyes and struggles to breathe normally.

He wants so much; Ghost can feel it coming off him the way heat rises from the asphalt in August. Ghost kisses across his chest, down his ribs, licks over the soft ridge of his belly. The taste of him is salty, wild, bitter green. Ghost traces his fingers along the trail of dark hair below Steve’s belly button and lets it lead him lower.

When he wraps his hand around Steve’s dick, Steve makes a sound like he’s dying, like it’s all over already; his back arches against the mattress, his fingers dig into his scalp.

Ghost breathes in, deep lungfuls of the smell of smoke, spilled whiskey, and denim that clings to Steve’s skin; drags his lower lip over the head of Steve’s cock before opening his mouth and guiding Steve in, carefully, over his tongue. Steve sobs, a full-body sound, and rocks up, bumping against the roof of Ghost’s mouth once before catching himself. He shakes under Ghost’s hands, tangles one hand in Ghost’s hair as if that can keep him from flying apart; each breath escaping his lungs with a small, frantic sound - _ah-ah-ah_ \- fracturing into silence as he comes deep inside Ghost’s eager mouth.

Ghost lets it fill up his throat, swallows what he can. When he pulls back, sticky tendrils of smokey-sweet spit and bitter come connect them, until Steve’s hands grab at him, feverishly, and pull him up. In the half-light, Steve is wide-eyed, still trying to catch his breath. His cheeks are wet and he takes Ghost’s face in both his rough hands and licks into his mouth; shallowly at first, then deeper, pressing the two of them together along every inch of their bare skin.

Ghost can feel where he’s pressed between their bodies, slip-sliding in the mess he left behind, and rocks into it, dizzy with how good it feels.

Steve sucks messily on Ghost’s jaw, sobs against his throat, “Fuck, Ghost. Fucking do it. Do it to me _please_.”

That word - the way Steve’s voice splinters at the end of it - burns right through Ghost, lights him up from the inside, out. For a few minutes after, there is only warmth, the sweet ache of all the good feelings, and a lone drone in his head, like television static.

Then, his own name, like a voice at the end of a long tunnel; over and over like a mantra.

“I’m here, Steve.” Their hands drag across the coarse sheets, meet and tangle, and the buzz beneath both their skins becomes a soft harmony.

-End-


End file.
